


Congealed

by kres



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Consensual Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-22
Updated: 2004-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:30:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kres/pseuds/kres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...he's just changed lanes and there's a green light all the way up to forever.</p><p>[originally posted at kres.livejournal.com]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Congealed

**Author's Note:**

> 2004, beta by ev_vy and HJ

...and yes, he is sure Jack is going to hit him _now_. Five, four, three, he counts the seconds, in time to Jack curling and uncurling his fingers, three, two, one… and a heartbeat.

His feet are kicked from under him instead, and he meets the floor, both palms open and now painfully useless, but his face thankfully intact. He starts to twist immediately, and he feels the smile building already. He can still put up a good fight if he has to...

But then he gets a boot in the small of his back, and he’s forgotten how _painful_ this is and how _precise_ Jack can be when asked. It’s like he can never get up again, mouth open on a whine that wants to come out but never does; the pain dims the edges of everything, and even a breath seems too much.

Now, that was a short fight if he ever saw one.

He finally manages to wheeze in some dirt. The pain in his palms is dissipating. Jack’s boot is still pressing into the small of his back, the heel pushing at his belt in an unspoken command.

On his elbows now, he begins to rise to a more comfortable position, but he finds himself connecting nose-first with the floor, and _No_ he thinks _Jack wouldn’t do that_ , and yet there is that unmistakable pressure on his neck; his eyes are tearing at the needle of pain shooting through his skull, and he knows he’ll taste the blood if he turns his head just right. Except that he can’t turn his head at all, the boot now placed firmly on his neck, which suddenly reminds him of death camps, and he really really doesn’t want to think about that right now.

His forehead is pressed to the floor, but his fingers are steady when he reaches to undo his belt, unzip his pants, tug them down his thighs along with his boxers. Jack’s boot leaves its resting place to push the fabric down to tangle around his calves. The pain has changed into a dull throbbing now, and he turns his head to the side and lies flat on the floor, letting himself just breathe for a moment.

Something is brushing his ribs. Something... and it’s too late and he remembers he wanted it to be no longer than a second, and he’s already used that up breathing, so the kick should have been expected, but the strength of it isn’t. Though the kinetics sure help him roll onto his back more swiftly.

He gets full four seconds though, when Jack sees the blood. The reaction comes by itself, he knows, it’s an instinct ingrained so deep in Jack that nothing can erase it, no pleas or assurances of _I’ll be fine, Jack_ , no smiles or safewords.

Four seconds, and he returns the stare unblinking, so Jack breaks eye contact and kicks his knees apart, kneeling then, two fingers already in his mouth, and when he’s reaching down Daniel closes his eyes.

Sweet, sweet pressure, and it’s just like he wanted, just like he craved, and he feels a slow wave of heat rush though him, leaving droplets of sweat on his skin. God he needs this, he needs this _so much_.

Jack is slow and methodical, like he always is; short, efficient strokes grazing his nerves. Daniel doesn’t have to open his eyes to see that thin stubborn line of mouth, that dark look on the face above him. He doesn’t have to reach out and touch to know that Jack is not aroused by what he is doing. The blood is sickly sweet, and when he swallows it in the back of his throat, he feels it already congealing.

Faster now, and with the change of pace comes a change in Jack’s breathing, and he just _has to see_ , so he squints up at Jack, and yes, his gaze is met and held, and the wave rushes back and new droplets of sweat begin to itch on his skin, but it’s not enough, it’s just _not enough_...

So he says it, just because he knows he’s not allowed.

“Jack.”

The hurt in Jack’s eyes is brief. But so is his hesitation.

The backhand makes his head jerk to the side, and the black spots appear before his eyes. Oh yes, right there. Right there with the hand caressing him _so right_. So wrong and _so...right...there..._

He squints, blinks away the spots, fights to stay on the surface. His nose is not broken, nor is his jaw. There won’t be a trace of it all on him in a few days, and Jack’s knuckles will stop hurting even sooner. Jack will grouse a little, as always, but then he’ll just hand him a towel and get him a beer. Or perhaps a chocolate bar.

But in the meantime, Jack’s hand is doing that _twist_ , which makes his mouth open, because he’s just changed lanes and there’s a green light all the way up to forever, and all he needs is... all he _needs_...

He turns his head and looks up, where Jack’s other hand is hovering above him, fingers trembling. Jack’s eyes are dark with a _No, don’t do that, please don’t do that_ , and he sees Jack swallow, once, daring him to speak.

And Daniel dares, to speak, to whisper, to breathe it just once more, because he’s close, he’s so _close_...

“ _Jack_.”

The blow comes with a force he’s never before experienced from Jack. He would have thought on it some more, except that he can’t, because Jack’s fingers make that twist again, and Jack’s head dips down, mouth opening, and then he can’t think at all, the pain pouring out of him in a sweet, sweet rush, and the blood he didn’t want at all, but now that it’s there, it’s sort of rewarding, and... and he can’t... _oh God, oh..._

“ _God_ , Jack!”

He’s blind and he knows he won’t see the blow if it comes, but it doesn’t, because it’s over, _it’s over now_.

He’s blind and he knows the pain will catch up with him any minute, from his forehead to between his thighs, along his spread arms, a cross of pain he doesn’t feel now, like he’s never been hurting, never been hurting at all.

He's blind. Jack’s hands leave him and then he is falling.

~

...and Jack is touching him again, the strokes gentle and soothing now. There is something wet and warm and smelling faintly of soap, and it’s pressing against the side of his face. He grimaces, coughing into the offered towel, trying to reassert control over his vocal chords.

“Fuck, Jack,” he rasps. A pause, a breath, an effort to make the air vibrate in his throat. “I told you I didn’t want that.”

“Daniel.” Jack’s voice is gentle, as are his hands, washing the blood from his skin, a gentleness he didn’t ask for, didn’t want, _doesn’t... really_ doesn’t...

On a warm kiss against his forehead, Jack murmurs fondly: “Shut up.”

The blood he leaves on Jack’s hands has already congealed.


End file.
